To a Rose, on Amoret's Breast

E NCHANTING Rose of early morn,
Whose opening leaves of dews are born;
Whose glowing plumes with scented air
To beds of Love the Zephyrs bear!

The hand that pluck'd thee from the earth
Gives thee a new and sacred birth;
Without a thorn, on Amoret's breast,
For ever blooming, sweet, and blest.

There when thy lustre is repos'd,
No more to winds or blight expos'd
Love shall in social wreaths combine,
Unfading hues, and breath divine.
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